


Erythraean Carnations

by craple



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Greek Mythology, Angst, Fic within a Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-15
Updated: 2013-04-15
Packaged: 2017-12-08 14:15:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/762264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/craple/pseuds/craple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dionysus has been in love with Apollo for nearly a millennium.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Erythraean Carnations

**Author's Note:**

  * For [brevitas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/brevitas/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Oh Di in Caelo!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/702756) by [brevitas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/brevitas/pseuds/brevitas). 



> oh my god, so this is very - very embarrassing. i read this fic of E/R in greek-gods-au the other day and is completely in love with it, so i really have to do this because it is awesome and the author is awesome and everything is beautiful, so. yes. for the amazing brevitas who allowed me to make a fic out of her fic. you are lovely.
> 
> and, just to avoid confusion, this is a prequel of her first story of the verse - _oh di in caelo!_ \- and here's a list of characters and who they are in greek mythology (also taken from brevitas, whilst i was stalking the comment of the first fic - like i said, very embarrassing i am u///u)  
>  enjolras - apollo (obviously)  
> grantaire - dionysus - athelstan (because i can't _not_ do this, i can't, i'm so sorry)  
>  jehan - persephone  
> bahorel - ares  
> courfeyrac - eros  
> valjean - zeus  
> plus prosymnus - ragnar lothbrok from vikings ;)))  
> i just got this crazy feelings for ragnar/athelstan from vikings, okay, i cannot _not_ do this. so yeah. i hope everyone like this as much as brevitas' stories, even though i could not, for the life of me, do justice for her amazing series. kudos to y'all!  <3

Dionysus has been in love with Apollo for nearly a millennium.

He does not need Eros’ pitying look his friend keeps trying to suppress, or the flash of regret in Persephone’s eyes to know that it is one-sided. Apollo barely tolerates him on regular basis, barely acknowledges his existence behind one of the pillars of Olympus except when he points out something terrifyingly realistic for his brother’s idealist mind to comprehend.

So he does the things he does best when he is in one of these moods: he leaves Olympus, he drinks, he fucks, and he paints.

It is not hard to find a pretty mortal to sleep with, it never has. Dionysus’ mortal flesh is quite gorgeous, with ink-black curls and bright smouldering blue eyes and pale-slender body. Not as gorgeous as Apollo’s, of course. But then again, no one can be as gorgeous as Apollo is, mortal or not.

The name he chose for his life as a mortal is a simple one, something he picked up from his trip to the lovely city of Paris when a Parisian woman spelled the word ‘Revolution’ into her phone, saying ‘Grand R’ instead of just ‘R’ as she spoke to her ill child, and Grantaire had taken the name as his own and has not changed it ever since.

On this lovely Saturday night, Dionysus – or shall we say, _Grantaire_ – is fortunately furious, more so than usual. The wine he has been consuming since he arrived on the front of his mother’s porch, which was four days ago, give or take, is simply not enough to get him drunk, to make him _forget_.

Nights like these are the ones when Grantaire despises being a god. It has its perks, of course. He is no different from his siblings when it comes to the prayers of his worshippers. Dionysus loves the prayers and loathes it the same time as it is the only thing that sustains him life, the thing that grants him power.

But now as Grantaire, a very human yet also still very much a god Grantaire; he feels nothing but hate for the power he possesses, for his father for impregnating a lovely mortal lady such as his mother. For his brothers and sisters that are calling for his name, Ares’ being the loudest of them all, back in Olympus up above the sky.

He can hear Apollo as well. Whispering his name in an apologetic tone, reasoning that he should at least response for Persephone is worried, Artemis is pacing – even _Father_ is worried now too. Dionysus is the very opposite of what Apollo is made of (perfect and golden and _scorching_ ), but he is never cruel to his siblings even when he is very upset by not informing them of his well-being.

Tonight, though; tonight he is not Dionysus, the god of wine and fertility, who is in love with his half-brother and is completely pathetic about it. Tonight he is Grantaire the drunk, Grantaire the painter, with his mischievous grin and poetic slur of words and talented, _talented_ fingers from years of painting.

Tonight he is Grantaire, a painter who is fully committed on making his conquest’s night as one of the best.

( _And is that not ironic_ , Grantaire thinks, hitching the red, red skirt up the woman’s thighs and slips his fingers inside to find her so _wet_ for him already. Seem like Apollo is wrong, after all, on the matter of Dionysus not being able to be committed to something, that is.)

Dionysus’ siblings can wait.

* * *

Upon his return back in Olympus, precisely three years later, no one speaks a single word to him.

It probably should mean something, the fact that it does not bother him at all, but it doesn’t. Dionysus needs the ambrosia every once in a while, and since he is too exhausted making money out of his sold paintings and drinking and fucking an alarming amount of mortals, he’d rather return back home than go into a scavenger hunt for the damned plant.

Persephone rushes into his chamber like a man caught on fire. His usually braided hair, decorated with flowers and pinned perfectly in place, is a chaotic mess of blonde ruffled strands falling all over his face. If not for his big, big eyes, Dionysus would have mistaken him for someone else.

“You’re back,” Persephone says. An awed whispers as if he cannot believe his eyes. Dionysus smiles and does not avert his eyes.

True to his Survival Instinct 101 book, Persephone throws himself bodily into Dionysus’ arms and hangs onto him like Australian’s koalas. “I’ve missed you, Ares missed you, we’ve all missed you,” Persephone tells his light crimson gown, nose nuzzling into the crook of Dionysus’ neck in a way so familiar he cannot help but reach out to hug Persephone back.

 “And as have I. Missed you too, I mean.” Dionysus says honestly. No matter how hard he tries, he can never _not_ missed Persephone, the brother who loves him most and he loves most. Ares is a close second, anyone with eyes can tell.

Persephone pulls back with a wistful smile. “You will be here for dinner, will you not?”

For some reason, his eyes have gotten all the bigger; slightly teary, an expression Dionysus knows too well from the time Persephone asked Father to do something completely inappropriate for him, and Father had caved. He can’t say no to that face either.

Sighing, Dionysus replies, “Sure,” and then he smiles and brushes a loose strand of Persephone’s hair out of the way. “But I want to paint first, have a private time of my own. Can I do that? Can you leave me until dinner comes?”

Persephone nods happily. “Yes, yes I can do that. I will – I will fix my hair first, and then we will talk, and have dinner, and I will leave you to your painting.” With that, Persephone pecks him softly on the mouth, not before nibbling at his lower lip playfully, and then he’s gone before Dionysus can retaliate.

Under his bed, there is a box of fresh paint Persephone had prepared for him months before. Dionysus takes out the canvas he hid from another room that functions as his wardrobe or work-load, grabs the box out with effort, and summons his brush from his nightstand drawer.

Taking a gulp out of his flask, Dionysus uncaps the many cans of paint, dips his brush into one – and he begins to paint.

* * *

He paints chaos and destruction and everything terrible; he paints and paints until the canvas is a mixture of sable and russet and vermillion, until he can see nothing but the silhouette of burning men and slaughtered children and crimson staining the peripheral of his eyes.

When Persephone comes to check on him an hour later, Dionysus thinks, Dionysus _knows_ , that Persephone is going to slap his face or punch his ribs, with the way he is looking at the painting. Ares follows close behind and he is speechless at the state Dionysus is in – painted all over, with streaks of kermes and haematic marring his body – the lack of pants or anything on his person making him look more God-like than he has ever been in his life.

* * *

Dionysus does not think there will be a time when Apollo really _looks_ at him. Fingers in his curls, leaving a burning trail in their wake, Apollo’s thumb grazing the side of his jaw, almost in reverence.

Too bad – that by then, Dionysus falls in love with someone else.

* * *

He did not expect his mother would be hurt. He did not expect that his mother, his kind beloved mother, who oft spiked his drink and let him cry his sorrow into the comfort of her strong, slender arms, would almost get hit and killed by a truck.

Dionysus drops everything behind (Apollo whispering his name, Apollo’s fingers around his wrist, Apollo’s eyes looking at him weirdly) and lands on earth without any grace whatsoever.

Only, when he arrives at the front of her porch, barging through the wooden-carved door of her house, Semele looks fine as the day is bright and there is a handsome young man drinking a cup of coffee on her couch. His eyes are so very blue, with his hair shaved on each side and braided long down his back, and he is so very gorgeous in a way that is so different from the lovers Dionysus has had before, he is struck speechless at the sight of his smile.

“Athelstan, yes?” the man asks, in a language that Dionysus – _Athelstan_ – categorises as Nordic. The man smiles again. It is a very threatening, yet somehow charming, sort of smile. “My name is Prosymnus,” he says. “You can call me Polymnus as well. Or Ragnar, whichever you think suits me best.”

Dionysus takes a deep breath before crawling over to the couch beside Prosymnus. He looks at the braids curiously, at the scar marring the back of Prosymnus’ neck, and he smiles and tries not to look nervous and touches Prosymnus’ arm.

This is the first time he does not meet someone’s eyes (blue, _blue_ eyes) as he speaks.

“Thank you for saving my mother,” Athelstan says, and looks up to find Prosymnus beaming at him and Semele looking at him fondly. “If there is any way to repay you for what you’ve done...”

“Oh, there is,” Prosymnus grins widely. “A date with you would be most perfect.”

And Athelstan smiles. “Just one date?” he asks, meeting Prosymnus’ gorgeous eyes, to which Prosymnus laughs freely, the sound of it making Athelstan’s chest warm all over. “Probably not,” is Prosymnus’ suggestive-toned reply.

* * *

Dionysus does not come back to Olympus for ten years.

But oh, when he does, he is in a state of disarray; wrinkles on his skin and the first real smile on his face. The lack of booze reeking from his body is startling, to say the least. He does not return to his chamber like everyone has expected him to, instead barging through Zeus’ throne room and _begs_ their dear father to grant him a mortal life.

The room falls eerily silent. No one notices Apollo leaving the room as they stare at Dionysus’ bent head, black curls – the wrinkles on the corner of his blue-blazing eyes.

He has fallen out of love and is in love with someone else.

* * *

One day, Dionysus comes back to Olympus in tears.

He leaves angry and furious and hurt, and does not come back for thirty years.

When Apollo asks Ares, the god of war smiles – a smile that does not reach his eyes – and simply tells him that Prosymnus is dead.

* * *

This time, Dionysus is fast-asleep on a mortal’s bed, the stench of cigarette and wine and everything he is made of strong in the air.

Apollo’s mortal flesh is of a young man with golden hair. He called himself Enjolras, and he does not hesitate to wake Dionysus – Grantaire – up from his slumber. The electric pale blue of Grantaire’s eyes is distracting and burning holes into Enjolras’ head, but Enjolras does not care and lifts him up.

“Come on,” Enjolras says, as he transports them back home. “I will fix you.” Promises Enjolras.

Not a week later, Grantaire returns to his formal self.

The amount of canvas with Prosymnus’ dark brown hair and haunting blue eyes has ceased to a dozen then almost nothing. Father is pleased and Persephone starts smiling and Eros is happy and Dionysus begins painting again.

Although, if this time, instead of Prosymnus, Dionysus paints Apollo in his golden glory clad in red and crimson and scarlet and everything beautiful – no one needs to know that but Dionysus himself.


End file.
